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a book of antidotes by les wade 

more from the "material studies" series (September - november 2012 , 
january 2013 ) 

this book along with pre-face and poems with accidence forms part of 
a loosely defined trilogy that can (and should) be read in any order. 

all illustrations are by the author, unless noted otherwise. 

the author retains all moral rights over this work. 

press then release press 

this book is dedicated to gillian rose and arthur danto 

electricity "dies" 
we still "close the day" 
my liver is trembling 
my "warbled" stance 
my "light" drunk 
bouncing up and down 
on the swings of fragonard 

new line city 
the swelling forms 
pulse is to voice 
as vert is to lips 
green and sour 

i excite color 

we'd all sit around a big table— eight or nine of us— we'd have big 
discussions and big fights, we'd fight about the surrealists and french 
culture, bill de kooning talked about his picasso, and gorky talked 
about his picasso. there was a real hunger, we all sought each other's 
company and it was practically daily; six out of seven nights of the 
week we all sat around and talked... 

a book between day 

the other of outside of a man singing 

outside the door 

hot light game, several columns of drift, surprised by the out-of-tune, 
the body becomes so fibrous, string anthem, whistle it down, caked 
with thirst, each throb lasts a minute and soon will fill up an entire 
day. the transparent elements organized into sguares. saying "thin 
fine frame" reveals a story, something that wants to be arranged as a 
table, intuit the black lines, the chambers and hallways return without 
warning, we will outlast time only by asking the wrong questions. 

this way it is thought that the scents of the present and how to cling 
to the body like a thing enclosing fields at play and how the lines 
hovering over the body this way or that it is clinging to the smoke of 
the present and the moments where we are counting to ten and how 
they creep into our field of view twisting this way and that and this 
way it is a thought, the curve of the smoke, where the outside of the 
body is always bigger than what our x-ray glasses lead us to believe. 

jotted, sharp, and afterwords, episodic as the law of averages will 
allow, for an hour there are only fractions, singeing our hair, the 
tobacco pattern, the ticking of the man glaring at the cracks in the 
wall, this is how we calculate the lifespan of every tv show ever. 

i think of my pictures as dramas; the shapes in the pictures are the 
performers, they have been created from the need for a group of 
actors who are able to move dramatically without embarrassment and 
execute gestures without shame. 

neither the action nor the actors can be anticipated, or described in 
advance, they begin as an unknown adventure in an unknown space, it 
is at the moment of completion that in a flash of recognition, they are 
seen to have the quantity and function which was intended, ideas and 
plans that existed in the mind at the start were simply the doorway 
through which one left the world in which they occur. 

the great cubist pictures thus transcend and belie the implications of 
the cubist program. 

the most important tool the artist fashions through constant practice 
is faith in his ability to produce miracles when they are needed... 


the wire in the rose why it must be an emerging present, 

a slim sequence of couldn't now and wouldn't wax. 

crosscut the light, the skills of sand, a transgressive solidity, light and 
sand work out the wave, the only dimension we leave is to turn back, 
event level action. 

deadpan planet, light columns explode, a science fiction, nervous 
expectations produced by three seconds of grainy film, asyndeton of 
"thou art the man" becomes "whatlyou're still here?" bruised 
armistice between edge and glance, where you are thinking from. 

fresh putrid nature 
dusty noise 
circle sweat 

a trip down museo drive 
sunset is only a place 
3 inches behind my head 
already mackin 1 back 
'n' forth the night 

the weather is 50 years old 

and they are so busy trying to reconstruct the cryogenic era 

nining the chrome 

stealthy approach and a room full of sound effects — something like a 
countdown, a platform, a slogan, under the beach, the pavement, the 
story gets flatter with every retelling, just seconds away from the 
page we are smithereened, made of barometer and temperature, 
slanted blue, stained with light, or prometheus in the dark, storm 
gadget and clank of appearance, the work of fire, the day. 

in street 

is less a location than a state of being 
in day 

is less an interval of time than a condition 

heat and pressure, something happens something, like somewhere 
else over that part and that part that is a large door leading to old 
orange, to descend into the lowlands thrown together as texture, as 
cellular automata, as thread, as mesh hurled and scattered, rattling 
the cage of air. the hands are always out in front. 

and i am speaking mimetic, but you're a holiday, shimmying and 
swerving in no particular time or place, or a place to learn all about 
magnets and still be spun/unspun every day. the challenge of 
rearranging, the standing wave, your mouth and out. eliding and 
allusive, we swerve, spun/unspun, after, and the unspoken, yourself, 
the unspoken, and after that 

when we remembered silver glass 
mind ice and intimate the summer 
is spent in swimming the 
rose light plastered in your 
hair i hold my arms at my side 
we were building the water all 
through the spring waiting for 
the eighth day by their count 

the weight of a country walk the October 
rhythm will surprise us spilling 
symbols all over the flatland 
when you told me you could no 
longer remember my name and 
i was talking no longer than the rain 
was no longer falling or 
the romantic abyss we wanted to avoid 

on shapes: 

they are unique elements in a unique situation. 

they are machinations with volition and a passion for stickiness and 


they move with internal freedom, and without need to conform with or 
to violate what is probable in the familiar world. 

they have no direct association with any particular visible experience, 
but in them one recognizes the principle and passion of living things. 

they make the path unavoidable. 

they float in the light, but will always bump into you. 

they encompass a secret and always smile at one another. 

the gestures they make open and close, unstoppable with waves. 

they will talk to you even underwater, 

and you'll want to throw a window out a door 

and a door down a sink 

and the words start grinning horribly 

and bopping up and down to jumpin jack flash 

and you'll want to jump up and yell out 

"look upon the face of unruly life, o death, and despair!" 

just like you're a pirate. 

scent of the seven rivers. 

the hissing sibilants and riot of liquids. 

the endless of 1. 

the hot light day when we 


yourself and a 

head-like intersection, x + i. a narrow head in paradise alley, 
compressing the day into a brilliant blue bird and fluttering in and out 
and more brilliant interruptions that target the weak geometry of the 
bars of sunlight, the faces in the dark, the present senses cling to the 
body, sigh the stain the faces leave when they wake up singing, the 
blue expresses what the face cannot. 

and so free the pattern 

breaking it up into its component parts 

the modern dance. 

fascination begins with nausea, drowned in the depths of thing— 
eating earth, exhaling earth— the book he took 

that torn a gesture 

is yes written 


a guarrel of color 

we are performing 

on the page 

in the absorbent light night 
i mean, it's only a movie! yes 
and my other eye hiding 
in the stories of streets 

opening to the chasms and windows left on the plains is the way of 
realization that we must do more than simply affirm where that thing 
yes is lying there on the page block-like and already pre-formed. 

in the trumpet of the page the external is to be regiven, and the 
setting sun. we are caught out in the open places. 

or counting the page, tap tap tap 

rain is sleeping 
in the rivers 
under the road 
amsterdam of 
canals and puddles 

the ground is 
the most serious 

they can name, like 
Wednesday wielding 
tuesday they shoot 
on friday 

imminently physical 
the large blonde 


the skin of speech 
to travel 
a/part the 
torn whole 
suddenly a vent 
as art is, but 
really isn't 
just there 
and the streets 

are just streets 

unfinished mud and varnish again and again what the hand burns 

"semi-public auto-criticism: the proceedings always had a curious air 
of unreality, one had a terrible time following what was going on. the 
assumption was that everyone knew what everyone else meant, but it 
was never put to the test; no one ever pointed to an object and said, 
see, that's what i'm talking about (and like or don't like), 
communication was always verbal, for artists whose first if not final 
concern is with the visible and the tangible, this custom assumed the 
proportions of an enormous hole at the center." 

"the moment we name ourselves, we're dead." gooey id-like response, 
a nitrogen looking adolescence, carrying your psychology in on a tray. 
really ? 

squishy, squishy pipeline, radiant decay by earthlight magnified, or 

grabbing asphalt, shocking information, shocking asparagus 
information into information freshness, calculating it thin, butter 
fitting, butter science: cotton water from cement, falling money vs. 
english magnesium, and a temperature about latin. the poverty of 
lamination, shifting hands against the safeness of the sea. 

stumbling and mumbling in harmony, in someone's history of taupe, 
no one gives it to you. take the long view, long pig in lugdunum, long 
pig in laredo. can you take it? all of it? 

"this is a small book and it works in ajar." really ? wet before study, 
not a place, just here, feel the exclamation mark 

roofless dispersal through inappropriation or deep inattention, all 
spaces would be inside one another or stretched out side by side in a 
gonging bright corridor. 

projecting x-thetics. the architectural bubble, radio face implies 
projection, grid-like phenomena implies illusion, i like the way words 
on the page open up space, run/unran. i used to think that writing a 
poem was a matter of finding a way, or forging a path, now i realize 
that the poem is always leading you off of whatever path you're on. 

them and a bald uncle 

them and a knucklehead 

them dragging their knuckles over a head 

one or other primitif (picking up the head stained Galen reddish) they 
plan [spend] vision end to bit, or he to dead, 

drawn off and drawn down, all the way down, to the restive colored 
dawn, they spread attentively 

in and through the moment of projection, taking their lip thinner 
home as the basis of memory and to comment, to start their 

plan to reach, out. beyond the weight of it. their time, how they gonna 
carry it. 

nothing is easy 

direct action; agency; altruism, bioethics; business ethics; 
congressional ethics; cuboid ethics; lumpy ethics; medical ethics; 
moronity; pictorial ethics; political— oh forget it! sexual ethics; soggy 
ethics; assorted ethics; utilitarianism, followed by forensic science 
and the "laundry industry" 

nearby terms are: 

illicit minor; illicit major; immediate image; inference image; 
recognition; and ignoratio elenchi 

the return of the son of them 
and sloppy giant and screech head 2 

they got that gray hum flesh tone, they got that cold eye zinc, that 
famous "thingyness" — branded pleather. 

mirrored in your step the present attack is coming in by remote 
control, that is, a system of thought that is always taking something 
from you to be returned to you so neatly packaged and leaving a little 
note saying thought is always thinking of you, singing, that is to say, 

heads are rolling, but people are talking about jigsaw bridges silky 
puzzles steel crunk uncomfortable celluloid echo plaster sguawk 
uniprose ice cube bounce dyeing and soaking the color of ground 
standing in all that cross-eyed traffic flat head or flat nosed our 
invisible data plan has gone up in smoke but wow! that three-story 
limousine's a real conversation stopper, not everything strange or 
unfamiliar is transcendental, throwing out the chunky factoids in this 
sleepy time realtor universe. 

"it's the non-social i object to" bertolt brecht to waiter benjamin and 
the asocial is standing three inches in front of my face, emitting, i 
mean, it's so carnivalesque! 

whiskey and peyote! 
lsd and aristotle 

the sun is underwater but we are trapped in some sinister-looking 
laundromat out in highlandtown, clutching our tickets and being 
made to watch a bootleg dvd of clash of the titans, "oh no! it's the 
satanic pokemon vs. the iron yuppie!" guess this must be the gritty 

and right now two and a half tons of dark matter are passing through 
my head, but i'm too stupid to do anything about it. 

one accident leading to another 

painful breaths distracted glances torrent of moments and tromp of 
gray footsteps great honking boring programmatic solos played on a 
cast iron saxophone counting out the sticky flypaper time of crawl oil 
drip steel slow iridescent isolation cell song that slurping sound we 
make in homage to surplus value and its discontents: 

vinyl finished leisure suits 

the torpor of pompeii 

the whole world of talking appliances 

every noise 
has been used 
5 times 

chronically tardy 

my arms unfurled 

sight is only a blue bird 

thought is just in rust 

and the air not only looks pink but feels 

pink and the eyes are an adventure in blip (and there's something 
here about the owl of minerva) 

mala popped 

international slob month 

it's always a guestion of boundaries 

and storms outside 

my moveable house 

a stain of 

wherever you 
look you're 
always so long 
and so layered 
and the long 

are seeping through 
to the other side 
it's hard to see 
yourself recording 
a jobber on the phone 
trying to find a place 
where the rain is fashionable 
and evaporating i 
went out one morning 

dry souls are best, the pictures float in music, nothing fits together, 
philosophy extinguishes fire with water. 

it's cynical logic 
glue the page with loop! 
ave. incomplete 
and breathing out 

the tracks it leaves in the street 

the chasms and the windows found 
in the woven desert the twisted planes 
the external is to be regiven 
a bright angle a single shot 
do you re-turn a tomorrow? 

in lode star polychrome madness made become alive 

where the next word might come from 

slick tape slow down 

does my work really invite a 






it works in low-relief 

carrier waves in low-relief 

cornered in ice 

the city in bass tones 

travels from right 

to right again 

the waters-of-strife a star 

granite always carries a shape 

night of omnificent streaming 
the rough replaceable sky 
i-rubbing to red. the broken distance 
our bad approach 
presses on or against the light 


we see the ones 

who carry with granite 

who curve the hill 

who stay the shape 

say there's nothing in the dark 

not far from home 

dropping the kalends 
how we are falling! 
they will take my island 

and i will compose 
soft limits 

rubbery green 
stretching and smiling 

"interstitial" he said, and broke up laughing 

and leaping off of a balcony 

in parallel with the light 

a primal act 

of plasticity 

and a taste 

the weight of the light 

the measure of the poem 

i can set no frame 

to the butterflies except leonardo's 

da vinci thin parchment and dawn 

is like eating a plum 

their wings uncover 

apace, or "again" with my "self" 

since you never ever give me nothing 


bone figure, bone fever, emergent wire, the cigarette smoke on the 
breath, a bone figure on a beach, the figure is never really there, the 
paint is never really all that plastic, although plasticity is great, bone 
figure, emergent wire, a feverishness inside, emergent wire, missing 
winter, yellow you! the open spaces are bending back, almost 
aluminum, almost young, entering the play of the same room, white 
freguency hangs loose and damp from the walls of boston, human 
voices full of phlegm, it went on for years. 

open yellow 
to window 
a sound 

poets like to fall 

oh, plumb it! 
seeking out 
the paper 

the light 

they did not note 
what they threw away 

what we still don't know 

the eye of morning 
the hand of hunger 

if the book is in april 
and i am not screaming 

thin and eliding in adhesive night 

mythical nausea cavernous sunsets 

the edge of your name gives a he to the sea 

stumbling downstairs and diffusing the day 

the house is at midnight 
and i am still starving 

sullen departures and laborious dreaming 

my bones are of fool's gold 
my blood is an echo 

i am always on fire 

and then i guess i just am... 

the eye of morning 

one hand on the sea (what, did you think i was alone here?) 

slick tape slowdown, record/retard 
the voices 


black humor : chance meetings 

"obvious setup" 

the cold soup of day 

like linoleum 

pressed flat 

and chewing our lips 

in the linoleum room at wally's cafe 

embrace of the rubbery light 

an appearance of happening 

a person 

to deflect your 

pre-war categories 

your dented narratives 

only leave you stranded 

and geometric as the floor 

a portrait in place 
of a performance 

the left front of your hand is the unspoken 

simultaneous containment and release: look for form as a cat does 
when she's hunting in the early hours of the morning, moving the 
head back and forth in the thin gloom, breathing and thinking become 
so diffuse and counter-intuitive that they no longer exist as such, and 
instead of a drama of interlocking lines and claustrophobic phrases, 
the poem exists as a place to fling a gesture against a sound, and then 
against a wall, how to build with spaces, tearing air. let's get rid of the 
"meta" in physics— wave is the most dialectical word of ah. we are 

a some day painting, even though it's only Wednesday it's ah so 
clockwise here in the northern hemisphere, a little night music 
wrapped around our hands, i want to keep the time, the explanations 
that drown in rain, i heard a violin this morning 

sleep & symmetry 
slipping into it 

her red gold 

the pliant "against" 

slowed in the spectrum 

the sound of sound 

and sluice me with the photograph gray 

beat of wings 

inside it's always so slow 

on the tongue 
blue fades to black 

day and night and two eggs and two other things 

that don't go together a recording of space 

in double vision— dream flower dream goop dream smoke 

deserted memory 

every book is a diptych cracked 


an homage to violins 

ok, if you're writing about waking up, i must still be dreaming, or 
making breakfast. 

a dancer with orphic eggs, slipping on your discourse, 
what song would say. 

"i see" is the last look, a moment of understanding, the lengthening 
road, like a recording, sound and symmetry to spin us out. 

although he (pollock) wrote to his brother that he had "painted quite a 
large painting for miss guggenheim's house during the summer," a 
friend of lee krasner, john little, remembered it differently, little 
stopped by pollock's studio in january and was told by lee that 
"jackson's supposed to deliver that mural tomorrow" and "he hasn't 
even started it." the next day little stopped by the studio again and 
was told by lee, "you won't believe what happened, jackson finished 
the painting last night." 

guggenheim was working in her gallery at the time but sent a truck to 
collect the mural and deliver it to her home, marcel duchamp and 
david hare were given the task of installing the work, they quickly 
realized that it was too big for the space designated by peggy. 
duchamp asked pollock if he would mind if they cut eight inches off 
the end of the mural and pollock told them to go ahead. 

while it was being hung pollock helped himself to peggy's supply of 
alcohol and it was during that afternoon that he allegedly urinated in 
guggenheim's fireplace, at least according to guggenheim's memoirs, 
peggy recalled that jackson kept on ringing her at the gallery to try 
and get her to come and look at the mural but she told him that she 
had to remain at the gallery, at one point, according to guggenheim, 
he walked into a party being given by her roommate, jean connolly, 
took off his clothes and drunkenly urinated in the fireplace — an event 
which nobody else recalled witnessing. 

portrait i 

embedded in a thick rectangular slab of lucite is a grainy, slightly 
blurred black-and-white photograph showing a cloud of smoke 
surrounding what must be the head and upper torso of a figure whose 
age, gender, ethnicity or even presence is somewhat uncertain, 
trailing down from this portrait on either side are coils of wire 
connected to a copy of lewis carroll's alice through the looking glass, 
members of the viewing public, selected beforehand, are invited to 
each read a chapter in seguence from the beginning of the book all 
the way to the end. miraculously, as each chapter comes to a close, 
the smoke in the photograph reduces in size and density, until, as the 
reading reaches its conclusion in the final chapter with the 
metaphysically unanswerable guestion about whose dream the story 
had really been— alice's or the red king's — nothing is left but a small 
white shape in the form of a luna moth, meanwhile, in an adjacent 
room, an angry crowd of barely remembered acquaintances, warty- 
faced third grade teachers, drunken in-laws, imaginary friends, irate 
ex-lovers, easily excitable letter-carriers, black-clad fbi informants, 
and psychotic bosses, some with expressions reminiscent of 
characters depicted by hieronymous bosch or breughel the elder, 
others by francis bacon on a bad hair day, dish out the dirt on each 
reader to tv's rikki lake, who, as these denunciations reach a 
crescendo, gazes distractedly into space and sadly utters, "there is no 
sovereign music for our desires." 

portrait ii 

the artist dons a form-fitting, skin-tight one-piece suit covered in an 
array of ultra-miniaturized television cameras and extremely flexible 
liquid-crystal video monitors, ingeniously configured in such a way 
that they simultaneously record and display a complete 360 degree 
view of the entire environment that surrounds him. for the person 
wearing this suit, whatever is taking place behind his back is seen in 
real time as happening on his front, and vice-versa, the overall effect 
of this is to confer a simulation of invisibility upon the artist, as if, 
looking from any direction or perspective whatsoever, one could see 
through him to the other side, before the piece begins, members of 
the audience email the artist with requests about what places they 
would like to see him visit and what they would like him to do when 
no one will be able to see him doing it. however, at the opening of the 
show, the artist, himself only poorly invisible, settles for anonymity, 
and standing next to a randomly selected art lover, mutters softly 
"peas and carrots, peas and carrots, peas and carrots" over and over 

portrait iii 

the street plan and entire urban design of a city will be cast in the 
form of a human face, the face itself should be modeled after one that 
is known to have character (a high "tyrannical" brow, whirlpool eyes, 
an interesting scar, perhaps even a mustache), and its expression 
should be one of byzantine indifference, or else enigmatic self- 
absorption. certain problems will have to be overcome, such as the 
size, shape, and color of the buildings, for example, the effect as seen 
from several thousand feet overhead as in a passing jet plane will be 
that of a mosaic, for the inhabitants of the city, everyday will be an 
adventure in physiognomy, your home may be located somewhere in 
the ear and the office where you work may be on the left cheek, going 
out for a night on the town, you might start at the hairline and wind 
up down around the lower lip. of special interest will be the numerous 
parks in the bushy eyebrows and the expensive restaurants in the 
newly renovated nasal section, or the stylish artists' guarter in the 
dark recesses under the jaw. 

HISTORICAL SIDEBAR: at this juncture, it may be useful to mention 
that in the 16th and 17th century the new world (i.e., the americas) 
was considered to be europe's exotic "other." in fact, for some writers, 
it almost attained the status of a counter-earth, the baroque 
equivalent of an exotic bizarro world, where everything was upside- 
down, inside-out and ripe for the taking, and in this regard, let us not 
forget that the very word "exotic" is first attested to in 1599 right at 
the beginning of mercantile capitalism, referring to something 
imported from a far away country and not native to the place where it 
is currently located, ripped out of context, a little like allegory, or 
quotation without the use of quotation marks, "any person, any object, 
any relationship can mean absolutely anything else, with this 
possibility a destructive, but just verdict is passed on the profane 
world..." this theory of allegory was first explained to me years ago by 
thalia morney who was hiding under the kitchen table at the time, "i'm 
allegory" she said in a rather bright and cheerful sounding voice, i 
immediately thought of plato's story about the cave in book 7 of the 
republic where puppets cast shadows on the cavern walls, but i wasn't 
certain which one of us was looking at shadows and which one of us 
was just a puppet, later that evening, right before i went to sleep i 
remember i was looking at one of my shoes, "i'm all shoe!" it was 
warbling, a moment of revelation was at hand. 

the hands are tracking space in huge-room theater 

on every level 

the doors are locked 

one low day 

in and out 

barely symboling 

electric day 

you will end us 


(which sounds a little like "audience", nicht wahr?) 

news of 
a monstrous "is" 
a smashed 

survey — thickly invoking— iron 
filter — chunk of 
blue— point, line, 
point— unwinding 
the resemblance 

systemic process : binary form 

pale onyx, that 

borderline necessity, extreme 

ellipse, history of a dot — visual texture— zero-degree — a field of 
reduction— monocloned— the after optic— a hollow point — scrummed 
into the margins — a basic unit— like an atom— ultimately binary— my 
unlikeness— thickly, invoking a theorem. 

zigzag vogue 
to glossy 

cons human / with lunar drippings 

photoslap vampire in 
zoom-zoom (a consummation) 

5 senses : 5 noises 

going through the motions, a few weeks ago, a bird was seen flying 
past a mirror, we can no longer be happy positivists. 

i saw many people today 
and we realized that 
my head 
is all day long 

all of it and all today 

it is together with my head 

all day 

the whole circular contraption 
of it 

that sits on my head 

crumbling into little 

white bits 

at the very end 

of the day 

on my head 

where i can not 

see the end of it 

sitting at the end of my head 

the container of day 

this must be spain 

where the day is 

is wooden paper 

railways and days 

around the world 

talking with my hands 

a species in s- 


crumbling into white 

when i was alone 

when i was very fragile 




and "ping!" 

as a kind of surprise 

at the end in the page 

cut up or shut up! 

riddle tone sign 

thanks to universe 

thanks to universal instability 

in another city a place to try at production of another city the second 
before the second famous five minutes is over, electric start of 
electrical speed of unconscious opening, a case of accident or incident 
of carbon and throat and the layered dramatization, wetly reaching 
out beyond the dark throat carbon gleam, or maybe time to try 
cherry's insomnia slam. 

gluck! gluck! gluck! 
pouring it on 

flaring the dramatic 
shake the missing spaces 

out-of-series shadows 
he adjacent to a world of things 

vice-like winter 
and our stubborn body 
is defined 
by position 

or behind 
the book 

lupine molding to laryngeal funk, a study of empty houses, it functions 
like a narrow hotel, every possible guest is bumped in endless 
succession, this could be the beginning of a wonderful travelogue. 

oh the waves of jelly! oh i mean, the uranium belly somewhere in los 
angeles! shining on the long con of the unbreathable. the waves of the 
unbreathable in my ear! a moonwax mosaic on a motorcycle ride 
shooting a movie like that on my face? with all the tourists doing the 
instant elsewhere bit. oh glockenspiels, oh trombones, and sudden cut 
to sleepy oboes, the populace is shapeless with expensive purple stuff, 
shapeless with constant merging, light entertainment moves the 

erratic, skin in landscape, a song sheds the number, rerun the zero- 
time. a red room in the hills, red re-runs on white, smoking asphalt in 

digging the hand signals, a trigger relationship, i met them at a 
burning building, we spoke about thresholds, i was very critical about 
contemporary ruinophilia. of course, entropy can only occur in a 
closed system, and only colorful steps can unleash the shade of 

the house will mark off its harmony, its pale system, the way of the 

what the hand signifies as a long road only to add a definition, a city a 
hundred miles long but only one or two streets in width, but today we 
are subdued by the presence of rain and the impending monolog, 
outwardly down. 

i am studying an empty hand, you are elbowing the house. 

embracing the event like a fuse, life dreaming wheat, diagrams warm, 
obvious and in the way. where today appears the same as today, and 
we won't see the cars crash. 

the symmetry in smoke, in stony breath, a little visit, window fear, 
moving the sun by its parallels, its dots, flowing could be itself as a 
form of music, release from the mythology of moments. 

the room of 7 evenings, river sticks and broken legs and after motion, 
effervescence in the attic. 

fever of limits, holding a clock in one hand, an orange in the other, 
torn bits of paper aid this process, "pure" air does not exist, only a 
glance and"m" or "n" in the same name. 

lead and oil. swollen materiality, the blur is still in the making, ringing 
like a bell, older and louder than what will appear before your long 
going, to look for an exit over the usual instrument, the one who does 
not leave himself. 

making statements in the dark, holding the night by its rusty flange, 
rehearsing the distance, joining the cold, waiting for a signal, the 
house is for hearing all around you. 

bird-like synapse, observing chapter 304 of my collisionist manifesto — 
something with length, and sudden focus on the way space was 
dripping and all the pan-tones calling, but only blue can be hard or 

the way a stain comes to an end in a description of struggle, i have 
crawled through western lands. 

faded smoke, old smoke, we walk through thinning mondays. 

standing in recycled rain, smudge on smear is only a technigue. rising 
at the end, we will never come to rest, a hole torn in the storms 
outside, curve in the water, but weightless on the beach, the fold will 
propel you a few inches above, where today appears the same as 

a today in series a dissolution of the senses as today appears 
dissolving in the same and the definite nature of it moving in a 
different direction dyeing and soaking the color of ground different 
from what we thought we were seeing so "not" today i thought as it 
appears the same as i do. today. 

i only write a line when i am open to it. i sing lines to the heat, i churn 
up the darkness when i walk, downward and out. 

journeys to and from my room, the whole mileau. the whole mispocha. 
i'm secretly juggling. 

break it up and get all geo-synchronous, the hard skin of the city sang, 
a moment of an ex-missing person, not the line you stand to send, a 
machine for crossing over, or fill in the blank. 

high noon melt 

space as fluid theater 

it will find a performance in the fabric 

it becomes a message that takes over the hand 

dented narratives still find me with the folds of a radiator, i don't think 
i ever left 1936. them rough minutes chewing my clanging history, 
them rough minutes in all the usual places, every time you step 

my moment in modernity, "wow, look at all those shoulder pads!" 

look around and then look surprised, all you'll see is big al's used 
sushi emporium staring back at you to give a shape with its shiny 
wave to the long cool radar view, the languid gas mask theater, i want 
to ring that hand and say "melt! give up the hand in your mouth!" 
because your hand will only bite me back in the dark of burning 
brentwood and every inch here is happy flamenco sguawk. and now 
it's 1956! gluing the mambo step by step, outlining an echo on the day 
my face stood still and committing all sorts of alliterative errors, 
embarrassing just to effluoresce. 

sound and space together, from coast to coast hyperventilating the 
rubber flex-time interface apparatus inside a spherical roof, 
misspelling "doom" as "dome", sorry, mr. hegel, but it's disappear or 
be disappeared. 

how many missed 

margins and blunt 

incursions weigh 

upon the head 

of your francis fukuyama 

action figure in 

the re-running season 

just as we are being laid off again? 

and the radio is asking me 
"how many giant shiny blue 
pyramids can you see 
standing on the corner of 
highland and exterior avenue 

opening the refrigerator door 

i'd say the answer is "mustard" 

or "medical systems banking law management?" 

broken puppet money 
expressed in poor planning, 
xylophoning instead of 
coughing, and waiting 
for a call, the broken money 
provides the edge 
but "fungible" just sounds 
soggy, activate the room, 
eyes to kill the boss ... 

"keep him in circulation 
all the way to the edge" 
always happening under glass 
your glass eye breaking 
the light through the door, 
in the space left open 
by the open window 
was saved 
these priorities. 

the radio face is telling me 

that the sea will rise to meet us 

and that the sun is still underwater 

and the mars market 

is full of airplane 

and welcomes your hunger 

o, i 

am traveling 
along the nodes 
in grainy winter 
with the houses 
piling up and the 
bridges blurred 
doing the whole 
library drive-by 
peace-of-westphalia thing 

you know 

the divide and decompose 

nuit /jour 

but "black plastic" 

holding it with both hands or both/and 

sign the stain the mouth is finding 

the black plastic of the disc 

iron music salt music 

asphalt binocular lead 

some glyphs in glass 

steel smoke 

filming evening sound 

syndrome colored 

low-rez crashing into an arrangement 
in slow moving dark 
inscription, the phonographic 

story circling the edge and spilling over the moment 
when i was remembering to ask if the poem i was writing was 
somehow supposed to leap off the page and wreak it's vengeance on 
the world i was living in or just sneak up behind me and bite me in the 
ass and noticed the dust and the light even mud and hunks of skin on 
the spines and covers and pages of the books in my room lined up in 
their shelves and a faint humming sound whose source i could not 

movement in parallel 

the layered look 

deep enjambement 

somewhere beneath Charles street 

we all come from somewhere else, baudelaire had more room, clyfford 
still had more paint, i am starting with nothing,trespassing the brittle 

or, skewed, regardless, i pick up my big black shoe and put it on the 
accelerator, the motion's in the body and the bodies in commotion. 

one word is not sufficient. 

garnicht and not "unvarnished", the desert air is white— mallarme's 
swan, when peace came, all the little magazines folded, can you stand 
the setting west? a characteristic to catch her, when they to find it 
and jump to find the sea, finally to repeat, like looking for a way out of 
the way out. rhododactylus disturbs the leaves of gold. 

i or moi, just shouting, staring at the loop, the view cries blonde grace 
of the horizon, blondie thing fires a gun. a sharp silhouette on the 
back, to sleep and 2000 hours later to prepare a group to accept that 
only all sides have been already and everything is ready to fight, 
wailing through dimension, a sharp silhouette on the back and the 
plain fires the gold loop fall, o and i, o and imoi, just shout, the 
flashing of the world is hungry arriving. 

listen! read phonetically, read diagonally, view distributed, the curse 
of hello, a view distracted, this is the only name i shall take part of to 
another city, let the horizon wash it away, the flash on the horizon, the 
missing line, no rolling power in me will stop the wire in the verse, 
enter a zone, interrupt all document. 

i'd rather be contingent than claustrophobic, this is not a manifesto. 

"for him, abstract art meant, finally, not abstracting from experience, 
but making experience over through a protracted series of connected 
efforts; a sketch was an event which led to another, not a draft to be 
perfected, for him, as for the action painters, the canvas was not a 
surface upon which to present an image, but a "mind" through which 
the artist discovers, by means of manual and mental hypotheses, signs 
of what he is, or might become, to this mind, gorky brought the 
accumulations of the hand that reveal him to being in fact the artist 
he had begun by inventing." 

this is not a historical sidebar, it is a garden in socchi, where the plow 
is singing to the flowery mill, unlearning the calendar year after year, 
the limit is the unattainable. 


originally just meant shaggy 

so right now i'm saying 

llama shoon la machine or 

fish of the flesh 

the centipede is 

not short of enemies 

and a yeti's boiling point is? 

like one step 
into the knowledge 

noisy oxygen 
invisible motor 
exploding the inevitable 
the sheen on all the 


the sound of burning 
will bracket 

all wobbly elegies tonight 
the sun is cut in two 
i like the cup of coffee 
to be precise 
there's only slow going 
in the wrinkled air 
and america is waiting 

look to this day 

intuit the black lines 10,000 frames a minute 

we work at no beginning, the biosphere at evening, and evelyn, 
already on the horizon what the sun would leave in the crumpled 

and sudden realization that i've already left out so much 

few quotes like a photo album" 

"i have never in my life seen a straight line." robert delauney. my 
fascination with images that do not "image"— a poetry of strong 

"during my first months in new york there were many paris painters 
here, at first the surrealist groups seemed to have real strength, but 
little by little they began to break up. it was hard to see one another 
in new york. the cafe life was lacking... as a result in new york we had 
artists but not art. art... is to a great degree a product of [artists] 
exchange of ideas... there is more loneliness — more isolation among 
artists here than in france." max ernst. i'm adding this quote here 
because someone once told me that the reason why waiter benjamin 
never joined his friends from the frankfurt school in exile in america is 
simply that, "he didn't want to be laughed at for being the last 

the quote about the social interaction of artists at the waldorf 
cafeteria is taken from philip pavia's reminiscences about the art 
scene in new york in the mid 1940s and can be found in black angel: a 
life ofarshile gorky by nouritza matossian. 

the quote about pictures as dramas as well as the opening statement 
on the nature of shapes and the interesting observation that the 
unfamiliar need not always be the exotic or the faraway is taken from 
mark rothko's essay "the romantics were prompted" published in 
possibilities, a journal edited by robert motherwell. 

"semi-public auto-criticism" a rather pithy comment made by thomas 
hess about the way in which the first generation of abstract 
expressionists tended to view conversation as a verbal and highly 
subjective counterpart of their painting practice, the rest of the quote 
is taken from robert goldwater's doubtless ironically titled article 
article "everyone knew what everyone else meant," it is, no. 4. in point 
of fact, when asked whether there was indeed a community that 
existed among abstract expressionist artists, and what term, if any, 
could be used to classify them as a group, willem de kooning replied, 
"it is disastrous to name ourselves." 

the comment made by brecht can be found in the essay "conversations 
with brecht" by waiter benjamin. 

heraclitus tell us that a beam of light is a dry soul, but adds that in 
hades, "souls smell." 

the anecdote concerning jackson pollock can be found at : 


peas and carrots, in movies, extras are told to mutter this phrase to 
give the effect that a conversation is taking place in the background of 
a scene, other phrases include "rhubarb rutabaga, watermelon 
cantaloupe, watermelon cantaloupe." in everyday parlance, the phrase 
"carrots and peas" can mean "i love you." 

waiter benjamin's remarks about the nature of allegory are taken from 
the origin of german tragic drama. 

"the desert air is white— mallarme's swan" is an observation made by 
robert motherwell on the grave of a miner in arizona, but ripped out 
of context by me. 

garnicht is yiddish and means absolutely nothing, rhoododactylus is a 
famous homeric epithet that sounds so much better in greek. 

the comments about what abstract art finally signified for arshille 
gorky are taken from harold rosenberg's arshille gorky: the man , the 
time, the idea, i've always found those remarks, and indeed, that 
whole book, to be very illuminating, and also very moving. 

i think i'll let lew welch have the last word: 

"you need the chops, on the one hand, you have all this practice 
behind you. musicians report this too. you finally get to a point where 
you've got all the machinery and you throw out all the structures 
you've learned — and the point of art is to make new structures, not 
copy old ones."